


Velocity

by Saucery



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: (Only Not), BAMF Q, Bathrooms, Bombs, British Character, Case Fic, Clothing Kink, Cock Tease, Coitus Interruptus, Costumes, Disguise, Fetish Clothing, Flirting, Gadgets, Goths, Gross Misrepresentations of the London Metropolitan Railway System, Humor, In Public, Inaccurate, Intelligence Operation, Leather Kink, M/M, Making Out, Mission Fic, Nipple Play, Pretty Goth Boys in Leather Being Felt Up By Their Daddies, Prostitution, Roleplay, Romance, Secret Identity, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Seduction, Sexual Frustration, Snark, Technology, Train Sex, Trains, Undercover, Undercover As Gay, Unresolved Sexual Tension, VERY brief daddy kink, Warning: Blue Balls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q goes undercover. Bond goes mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Velocity

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this scene](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/35482135454/get-on-the-train-stop-making-me-want-to-write). I just _had_ to write something with trains. (Didn't I?)

* * *

  
Art by [crimsontentacles](http://crimsontentacles.tumblr.com/post/35601092795/this-is-the-most-lousy-imitation-of-a-fanart-i).

* * *

 

It takes a moment for James to realize that the young man in the ridiculously low-cut leather pants and the schoolboy tie over his meshed tank-top has a familiar head of messy hair, and that the thin mouth darkened with black lipgloss wears a familiar smirk, and that the pierced eyebrow has a familiar arch.

James can't say he recognizes the nipples shimmering in and out of visibility behind the cheap silver mesh, but then, he's never had the opportunity to study them. Before.

Bef -

There's a second of cognitive dissonance in which James's mind fractures - reforms - but then it's easy, even expected, because this is the business and they're damn well in it.

James doesn't demand to be told what the hell Q is doing outside headquarters, let alone dressed like... that, not when James also knows that: a) he's in the midst of a potential bomb situation, b) he asked for backup and c) this is the rear of the train, defaced with graffiti and grimy fliers on the floor advertising various establishments offering sexual services, and this is precisely the place for a tart with sly, kohl-rimmed eyes to approach a middle-aged client in an unusually fine suit.

James lets Q (no, the whore) sidle up to him, and slip clever hands along James's hips. Hands that have (disassembled guns in record time) snuck into many a businessman's trousers, no doubt.

"I'd say I have something for you," the boy murmurs, dark lips parting with the promise of wetness, "but I rather think you have something for  _me_." His palm (black nail-polish; fingerless gloves) grazes over James's crotch.

James catches his wrist. "And how much do I need to have? For you?"

"As much as you can," the tart smiles. "Say, two hundred?"

The time. The bomb is set to go off at two in the afternoon. It is now seventeen minutes past one. "That's cute," James says, reaching out to cup a surprisingly full behind clad in tight leather. Well. "That you think you're worth that much."

"Oh, I'm worth more, if you'll just let me prove it to you." The hook-like smile grows sharper. "Daddy."

"Don't. Call me that."

"No? Then how about we go where we've got less of an audience?" Those thick-lashed, lazy eyes roam over the other passengers, all of whom are, to varying degrees, gaping at the scene playing out before them. Any one of them may be undercover guards or scouts stationed by the terrorists who planted the bomb. Any one of them may, if they witness anything unexpected, sound an alarm that will bring on the explosion much sooner than scheduled.

James allows himself to feel the spark that any rich bachelor would feel at being offered that very pretty arse, allows his own gaze to heat, allows his grip to tighten.

Q (no, the whore) shivers gratifyingly.

And tugs James - by the hand - toward the nearest lavatory.

As soon as they're inside, with the door locked behind them and the rank stench of piss around them, the boy's seductive slouch melts away, and there's Q, incongruous and businesslike in all the wrong (right) ways.

"Here's the compound that'll disable the charge," he says in hushed, clipped and smoothly professional haste. A steel cylinder is pressed into James's grasp. "And here's the timing device. The bomb does not count time as you and I measure it; there's an equation that must be mapped, in reverse, from a date in the Julian calendar set to the logarithmic value of - " Q cuts himself off. "Irrelevant. You'll use this device, and not your wristwatch, to time the disarming procedure."

"And the procedure itself?"

"I'll be in here," Q fishes out a delicate, skin-colored earpiece and slides it into James's ear, not lingering in the least to caress it, "dictating to you."

"Whispering sweet nothings in my ear, then?"

Q's eyes narrow, but there is an avaricious glitter to them that belies their purpose. "Bond."

"This is no time for your impending ravishment by field agent, I understand," James concedes, and Q snorts.

"Wait," Q says, when James finishes getting debriefed - metaphorically - about what each of Q's miniature gadgets will do. They're small and devious, much like Q himself.

"What?"

Q steps close and  _bites_  him, on the mouth, and as if it were a key being turned in the ignition of a pornographically beautiful car, James finds himself throwing Q against the lavatory wall and fucking that devilish little mouth with his tongue, slick and filthy, until Q gasps and arches and pulls painfully on James's hair.

Q's legs come up to wrap around his waist; the leather pants creak. James barely has the ability to register how uncomfortable they must be before his thumbs are somehow on Q's nipples, stroking them through the mesh, rubbing hard, then harder, until Q's hips jerk.

The spark from before flares into something viciously urgent and dangerously all-consuming, but Q, being Q, has a flawless sense of timing.

Damn him.

"That should do it," says Q (not the whore), huskily, drawing back.

Perfect discipline. Q's mouth is bitten and his pupils dilated and his cock what must be agonizingly erect in those pants from hell, but his expression is calm, then calmer, then condescending, and James knows that his own expression has failed to catch up.

"You have less than twenty-three minutes to defuse the bomb after making it past any scouts," Q continues, almost loftily. "Hopefully, our... assignation and your disheveled appearance will get you past this carriage, at least. I'll give you all the directions you need; you'll have to play it by ear. Literally."

"Understood."

"Understood, hm?" Q tilts his head; a silent laugh plays about his lips, the gloss licked clean away, leaving them flushed and soft. "Twenty-one minutes, now. Hurry up, 007."

"I'm going to take this out of your hide," James grits, straightening his jacket to do the opposite of hiding his erection, determinedly not picturing red handprints on any part of Q's anatomy.

Q just lounges against the cubicle, hip canted against the streaked sink, back to being the tart he - absolutely is. And yet his voice, when he speaks, is still vintage Q. Still dry as a martini. "You're welcome to."

James huffs, switches mental tacks from sex to murder (surprisingly easy, given the adrenaline required for both) and opens the cubicle to step out onto a train filled with passengers whose lives he must save - with the exception of the terrorists on-board, whose necks he must snap. Quickly.

He proceeds to do so, in under sixteen minutes, and refuses to thrill at Q's quiet, in-drawn breath of appreciation in his ear.

"You're rather good at that," Q observes, like it isn't part of standard bloody training (often  _quite_  bloody) to learn how to kill efficiently. Q can probably kill people with his brain.

"That's not the only thing I'm good at." It doesn't mean that James won't pick up the gauntlet, though. Terribly clichéd as it is.

"Oh?" Q's amusement is unbearable. "And I suppose you'd like lots of time to show me all the various things you're good at?"

"Yes," replies James, somewhat shortly, but only because a man nearly shoots him in the face before James shatters the man's ulna and then - satisfyingly - his atlas vertebra.

The crunch must be audible to Q, at the other end.

Then, it's all work, for a few minutes. James makes it into the bomb's compartment and flicks a tiny penknife out of the heel of his shoe, poised to cut whichever wire Q tells him to.

As soon as he's done - and Q's done firing sodding commands at him in an infuriatingly still-husky tone - he finds his way back to the toilet, which, of course, is utterly empty when he reaches it.

He doesn't do anything childish, like beat his fists against the wall. Instead, he merely glowers into the mirror - which Q has most likely rigged with cameras, the better to humiliate him with - and hears that godforsaken voice again.

"You did well, Bond."

"You'll be  _done_  well."

"Will I? I won't, if you stay on the train long enough to reach the next stop, where the panicked civilians currently screaming and pointing at no less than eight corpses strewn throughout the train will finally be able to summon the police, and you, Mr. Bond, will be duly arrested."

James's jaw clicks shut.

"You have four minutes," adds Q, helpfully.

James breaks out in three.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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